Their Vicious Games(14)

I hum, curiosity piqued. I don’t know what’s in store for us, but I didn’t imagine we’d have much time to fool around in the backyard like kids.

“This way,” Dr. Remington calls, and I jump, realizing that she and Saint have already reached the second landing.

She continues down the hall, and I hurry after but I wonder what’s up on the third and fourth floors.

Is it where the family lives? Does Pierce live up there?

“Did you go to Edgewater?”

Saint’s question cuts through my own internal interrogation.

“I did. You didn’t, though,” I say needlessly. I shift a look at Dr. Remington’s back, but she’s not paying us much mind, or at least she’s pretending not to.

“No,” Saint agrees. “I went to a boarding school in Switzerland, but I’m from Beijing. I attended summer courses at Oxford with the oldest brother.”

“Graham?” I ask, surprised.

“Is that his name?” Saint murmurs. “I couldn’t remember. He didn’t exactly make an impression beyond being high for the majority of the time. Good at chess, though.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have thought that,” I manage.

“I suspect that this family is quite good at games,” Saint murmurs, and there’s an edge to her voice now. She doesn’t say anything else, and I squint at her harder while we turn down a corridor with more tall, narrow double doors.

There are seven of them, three on one side and four on the other, all leading down to a tall window that points to the east side of the grounds. I stare, squinting, and see that far past the gardens there is a stable. Of course the Remingtons ride horses. Penthesilea is an equestrian. She probably rides with Pierce. A prince and princess on horseback.

I remember the feel of his mouth on my neck, and I cringe from the thought of both Penthesilea and what I’ve done. For now, it doesn’t matter. She’s not here. I can reckon with the morality of my decisions after I get back what’s mine.

Dr. Remington raps her bony knuckles against the door that now belongs to Saint and me. Her long, thin fingers are devoid of any gold. No ring. Interesting.

“That room at the end of the hall is a common area. A place to mix and mingle. Ladies, I’d like to see you both there, dressed and readied, at one sharp. Dresses have been prepared for you, as we’ll be taking a photo. Also, please bring your phones,” she says. She doesn’t seem the kind of person that will tolerate lateness.

I file the observation away for later, moving to press the door open as Dr. Remington walks away.

It’s bigger than any bedroom I’ve ever seen in real life, even bigger than Esme’s, where I was a guest more than once over the years. I swallow hard, staring at the two enormous four-poster beds, the tall ceilings and long windows filtering in bright summer light. There’s a plush chaise at the end of one bed and a slightly harder-looking bench at the end of the other, though that bed has an extra nightstand that looks like it could’ve been handcrafted in the Baroque era. It probably was.

“I want this one,” I insist firmly, claiming it and the extra nightstand by falling back onto the heavy brocade comforter. I sink into the plushness, turning my face into the silk pillows. Sitting up slightly, I look to the far wall, by the door that leads to what I can only assume is a bathroom. Lined up there are our bags. “How did they get them up here so fast?”

It couldn’t have been easy to lug all of Saint’s trunks up the stairs, and they didn’t come up behind us.

Saint is too busy inspecting her own bed to answer. She picks up the throw at the bottom of the bed between two fingers, rubbing at it. She raises an eyebrow. “I think this is Shahtoosh.”

“What?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Saint says, but she sounds impressed. She marches up to the wardrobe against the wall, flinging it open with abandon, and there, as Dr. Remington had promised, are two muslin garment bags. “There are tags. This one is yours.”

I reluctantly leave the most comfortable bed I’ve ever sat on to go and take it from her. Just as she promised, there’s my name in the same swirling script the writing on the invitation was in.

“How did they get my size?” I mutter. It feels almost… creepy.

“Market research,” Saint jokes, looking at me, as if she expects for me to be in on it. When I don’t crack a smile, she frowns. “Well… we don’t want to be late, do we?”

The cotton dresses are old-fashioned, with lacy, high necks and shin-length hems. The nipped-in waist and tight sleeves look like they belong to an era one hundred years before, and the back is secured by tiny buttons that feel like pearls. The only saving grace is the fact that there isn’t a dumb matching hat.

“I feel stupid,” Saint says once dressed, giving voice to my own feelings. But while I feel uncomfortable, she sounds more put out than anything.

With a few minutes to spare, we leave our room, even though I could be happy spending the entire two weeks just exploring there. I cast it one more excited glance before we make our way to the common room.

Opening the door, I’m not sure what to expect—maybe solemnity—but instead, it’s full to the brim with a gaggle of girls, all speaking loudly over one another, dressed in the same white cotton and lace.

“Adina? Adina!”